


The Heron's False Shade

by Chairman



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Ibex watches nature documentaries because of course he does, people talking in metaphors, rants about biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-16 02:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chairman/pseuds/Chairman
Summary: As everyone settles into their new roles post-September, Cass reluctantly agrees to a meeting with Ibex.





	The Heron's False Shade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OliviaZircon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliviaZircon/gifts).



> For Secret Samol 2018, with the prompt "Ibex and Cass find themselves having to work together early on in Cass' reign"

“He’s a blow-hard,” AuDy says after the sixth Ibex story Maryland tells that day. “Don’t you have other people to talk about, if you want to ramble on while you work?”

“Last time you asked me that, you asked me if it was necessary to talk while gardening.”

AuDy did not have eyes, or a face, but still they look in her general direction. No shrug or movement of their single antenna, but somehow they seem perturbed. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

“It means, Liberty and Discovery, that you’re learning manners.”

AuDy crosses their arms, recoiling slightly at the name even though it is the truth. With the name comes memories, too many to process at once. They would rather talk about something else, someone else, even if it’s Ibex.

Maryland September kneels in her garden, loose hair bunched together with a clip, combing through the dirt with her bare hands to separate the dandelion leaves from the new sprouts of cilantro. Amazing, that even on a planet such as this, transformed with a heavy hand to sustain life, the weeds that should have died on Earth centuries ago are still growing, straining themselves to photosynthesize with light coming from the distant stars, here in a pocket prison of their own design. She sighs as she pulls another weed from her garden. “It’s not intentional. Ibex just happens to worm himself into every story worth telling. Would you rather hear about the scientists too focused on their tenure tracks and their publishing record to conduct any real research? Or the bureaucrats holed up in their offices, pushing around numbers that turns into money and lives? I have hundreds of stories about small people, but they’re just that: small.”

“Anything is small if you think yourself too big.”

“Maybe not small then; unimportant. Short-lived. Ephemeral in the worst way, a butterfly wing that doesn’t even make a breeze.”

“Was that what you thought of your clones?” Of Mako? AuDy grumbles and remembers their animosity toward this woman who had made people as if they were photographs, editing them to her heart’s whims. And like photographs, she replicated them by the dozen and let them be crumpled and destroyed and lost, because their was always a replacement. To her Mako was just a high school yearbook photo that she doesn’t even remember taking. Maybe he still is.

Maryland plucks a leaf and holds it up to the sky. “You know how they made this strain of cilantro? Way back when, on Earth probably, they needed a strain that could grow well in dim environments. So the very smart scientists found the right gene to change, put the code in a bacteria that infects the plant’s embryos, and make sure that the new gene is kept and all the other insertion mechanisms destroy themselves, so that at the end of the day everything is the same except for one small difference. Tedious, but much less so than growing and cross-pollinating for generations and generations.

“And even before that, we humans had mapped out the fate of every single cell in a tiny, tiny worm. Years, decades of work, all to figure out how a single organism goes from one cell to many. I think maybe humans are just natural cartographers; first it was the Earth, then the stars, then the cells in our very body.”

“That’s a bit simplistic, though,” AuDy replies. “I think humanity’s done a lot more than drawing maps over the years.”

“Have they?” Maryland says drily, as if she isn’t part of that group. “What are wars but disputes over how a map should be drawn? What do doctors study if not a map of the human body, lawyers a map of law? The first thing we as humans did as humans was to take in the chaos of nature and draw lines around them. Maps of things, maps of places, maps of people and ideas.

“My thesis project was to create a map of a single thought. I had to draw lines through every neuron in our brain, all for what we feel when we see the color red. My mentor was the one who created the most comprehensive map of the human brain, down to the synapse. They drew countries of neurons, provinces and counties of axons and dendrites. The whole human brain. I used that research to replicate Jace Rethal’s abilities. I know the workings of a stratus brain down to the action potential. I work in fine details, but my work isn’t small. I go through the mesh, into the processes and the code, the ones and zeros, but I can always bring myself out. Back into where the human meets the Divine. But that’s as far as I can go out.”

“So you work in maps that get smaller and smaller, like going from a map of a planet to the map of a single dome.” AuDy pauses and considers the effect of the Kingdom Come breaking through Counterweight’s atmosphere, buildings and eventually domes turning smaller and smaller until the planet is a single light blue unit, and the star it orbits comes into view less sun and more celestial body. Then another memory pulls at them; chasing them into the void, Detachment and Jerboa’s warning, the fight, the revelation and the long sleep that followed. Discovery is falling but Liberty pulls them back to reality, to the leaf and the garden and Maryland September rambling about maps, the timbre of her voice sometimes dipping into Mako’s drawl. “Sorry, why are we talking about maps?”

“We were talking about Ibex,” Maryland says. “Imagine being able to dive just as deep as me, deeper sometimes, but then zooming out farther and farther to planets, OriCon and the Diaspora, all the plots and politics of the Golden Branch Sector. Imagine seeing it all, not being able to unsee it, and to have to weigh it by the scale of Righteousness.”

“Right,” AuDy says, “but he doesn’t need to be a prick about it.”

-

“Have you thought about it?” Aria asks through the comm line, maneuvering her mech just in time to avoid some stray debris. Cass grunts in reply, adjusting their movements yet again to reorient themselves inside Megalophile’s cockpit. Nothing much has changed—their regalia remains the same, and the Apostolostian engineers are very good about upkeep—but somehow being inside their old mech feels foreign. Cass approaches the conclusion with dread: are they growing out of their mech? Like an old tunic they’ve gotten to big for.

There is something soothing about being in Megalophile, however. Here they’re not Apokine, not even Cassander Timaeus Berenice. Here they can just be Cass, if only for a short while. Just the medic of the Chime, strategist and occasional cook. Nothing weighing on their shoulders except the familiar give and take of their mech’s systems. 

“Yeah, I have,” Cass says, though in truth they really haven’t, aside from the kneejerk Hell no that they’ve decided to trust. “Still feels weird saying yes. Still feels weird that you’re working with him, if I’m being honest.”

“I mean, it’s not so much him as it is the Vanguard.”

“Which is basically him.”

“It’s more than just him, Cass. The people in the Vanguard, they do good work.”

Cass bites their cheek and decides not to debate it. Things have been strange lately, with AuDy gone and the rest of them scattered on different sides. A tenuous peace stands between Apostolos and the Righteous Vanguard, more of standoff really. That’s why they bring the Megalophile to their excursions with Aria, instead of Apokine. State secretes, their advisors say, don’t want outsiders knowing what this Divine is capable of. Plus it would look strange, the Apokine and the current face of the Righteous Vanguard coming together to spar in the outer reaches of the system. The first time Aria pointed her blaster to Cass and aimed, Cass flinched despite the fact that she only had dummy rounds in. The sparring doesn’t feel like sparring as it does a prelude to the inevitable. Maybe it was their time inside the memory of the Kingdom Come, where they were Addax and she was Jace. Cass feels it in their gills, that in the end, whatever happens with Rigour, it will be the two of them hanging in space with the fate of the Golden Branch between them. 

In the meantime it’s just the two of them and the asteroids, and changes neither of them want to acknowledge. Cass is finding more grey hairs on their head every day, but they still feel like they’re losing their adolescence, somehow. In hindsight the years they spent with the Chime were the freest in their life, and leaving it behind is like when the garden gate was shut and they were ushered to the library, to tutors and instructors who were given orders to turn a child into a scion.

“Aria, I sure hope I don’t have to refer to you as Executive Joie one of these days.” They try to sound humorous but there’s definitely a crack in their voice, where a subtle plea lives to beg Aria never to grow up as Cass did, to turn into a statesman with simultaneously too much and too little power. 

“Very well, Apokine, I promise.”

Cass sighs. It feels different whenever Aria or Mako, or even Maxine calls them by that name compared to the advisors and politicians who are suddenly on their side, or the reverence of the Apostolostians who now recognize their face in the street. In their friends’ mouths the word becomes ironic, outlining the bizarre trajectory of Cass’ fate, from reluctant heir to intentionally forgotten relic to national hero, bearing the weight of all Apostolosians on their shoulders. Well, on their mech’s shoulders, but that’s close enough. 

“Do you trust him, Aria?” 

“Enough,” she says, and Cass realizes that ‘enough’ is enough for them. Aria is a person of contradictions: an insanely private person who steps into the public eye without a single hesitation; a visionary capable of collaborating with the likes of Ibex, willing to compromise for the sake of a good utilitarian end. She is a survivor first, but a survivor with principles. This Ori-Con girl was chosen by a Divine to lead, and she does not seem to have lost her soul yet. Unlike Cass, who day by day feels less like a person and more like a People, the collective will of Apostolos swirling around in their head making it difficult to think. They are losing themselves, and in the small pocket of their mind that was still completely Cass, it was terrifying. 

Maybe it might be good to speak to someone like Ibex. Not to learn, but to do the exact opposite of what he suggests. It would help to see someone so completely consumed with himself, without principle or direction, less human and more conduit of a Divine, to bring Cass back to steady.

“Alright,” they sigh. “But he’s coming to Apostolos, unarmed, unescorted, without Righteousness.”

-

To Cass’ surprise, Ibex agrees to the terms without any modifications. A date is set, a venue chosen: a private garden that Maxine liked to spend time in, meticulously landscaped with streams, ponds and fountains. Cass spends the night before the meeting dreaming of punching Ibex like Mako did, feeling the jaw crack beneath their knuckles. They punch him into different ships and different planets; one moment they are amidst a protest on Counterweight, the next they are suspended in space, the dead metal of Detachment floating behind them. Then they are in space, and as Cass swings forward they realize that they are actually Aria, and they are actually hitting themselves. After that last impact Cass wakes with a start, alone in the early morning, and spends the majority of the time until noon catching up on official paperwork, trying to pretend that Ibex didn’t get inside their head so quickly.

Ibex arrives by private shuttle, so nondescript that the customs officials mistake him for a deliveryman. Cass waits on the veranda, sipping tea and eating teacakes without abandon. If Ibex decides to show up late to lukewarm tea and only a few crumbs, that was his decision. As Apokine, thousands of eyes are watching them at any given moment, and thus Cass has to observe the rules of civility. Granted, they also can order Ibex to be executed, but the fallout isn’t worth it. So passive aggressive table manners will have to do.

The man who steps into the veranda looks much older than the man who stepped onto the Kingdom Come what feels like eons ago. Not physically, as Ibex still has the toned physique of someone who definitely works out but doesn’t talk about working out, but there are more lines and blemishes on his face, a certain sagginess made more prominent by the thin layer of stubble on his chin and cheeks. Ibex comes to Apostolos wearing dark grey, still finely tailored but lacking the intrinsic arrogance of his traditional red. It’s the difference between being an adult and being old, Cass realizes. 

Cassander Timaeus Berenice of House Pelagios stands up to greet him. The two steps forward they take to shake Ibex’s hand are marked by the swishes of their robes, a rich cream with emerald embroidery and a gold belt. Cass definitely didn’t spend an hour looking through their closet trying to find the most appropriate outfit that says “fuck-off, I agreed to this but I’m not happy about it so don’t try any shit.” Compared to Ibex’s plain dress they feel exposed, as if suddenly they’re the one who is posturing, and not the undisputed King of pretention and smugness standing before them.

“Executive,” they mutter, taking Ibex’s extended hand into their own. “I hope your flight over here was smooth.”

“It was uneventful as all travel should be,” Ibex grins, showing a glint of his straight white teeth. “And not too long, either.” Cass is somehow relieved by the gesture. At least Ibex was still a slimey motherfucker. The fact that Cass could have opened a gate with Apokine to summon Ibex goes by unaddressed. Doing so is a concession Cass is not willing to give, not yet. It would be acknowledging Apokine as a Divine, and Apostolos is not ready to ally itself with the Diaspora, especially in its current fractured state.   
There have been talks with Grace and her candidate, but Cass has always felt uncomfortable in her presence—it has always seemed as if she forces them to stare up at her, and her candidate is a vainglorious and vindictive brat who has too much power at too young an age. All the Candidates feel like that, and so dealing with Grace’s side of the Diaspora is like dealing with children playing politics. 

It at least makes sense dealing with Ibex. Despite everything, he feels like someone in power. Cass breaks their handshake, which has already lingered a little too long, and invites Ibex to take a seat. Ibex pauses a moment, his eyes flickering from one marble pillar to another, as if taking in the view and the Grecian architecture if he were anyone else.

“There’s no need for formalities now. Just ‘Ibex’ is fine.” Ibex lifts a teacup and then sets it back down without taking a sip.

“You may call me Apokine,” Cass replies. Familiarity is the first trap Ibex sets, and they aren’t going to fall for it. 

“Very good,” Ibex picks at a crumb, crushing it between his fingers and letting it fall into his tea. “Does that change your form of address? If there’s any change in pronouns I should be aware of…”

“The pronouns are for Apostolosians only,” Cass snaps, and then catches themselves. “Just call me what you usually do. Now, Aria said you wanted to have this meeting, so what do you want?”

Ibex doesn’t respond for a moment, staring out into the pond where several waterfowl idled amongst clusters of lotuses. “Are those black herons?”

He catches Cass mid sip, and they take their sweet time clearing their throat before answering. “Yes, they’re gifts from the Odamas Fleet. There’s a couple of native wild populations but they’re numbers aren’t doing so good. What, you into birds?”

“Crane diplomacy, how quaint.” Ibex finally drinks his tea, not a muscle betraying disappointment or frustration. Dammit. Now Cass is the petty one. “We all have to have a hobby, Apokine. I personally find the natural kingdom to be fascinating. The process of evolution, the chaos that is harnessed into order.

“Did you know that black herons in particular have a specific method of hunting fish? Look right there,” Ibex gestures to one bird in particular that has its head down and wings spread like an umbrella. “What do you think it’s doing?”

“I’m going to be wrong if I say ‘sleeping,’ aren’t I?”

Ibex smiles. “Sharp as ever, Apokine. You’re correct, it’s hunting. Although, sleep does play a role in it. The heron uses its wings to create shadow that tricks the fish in the water to think it’s nighttime. They sleep, and the bird snatches them up.” At that verbal cue, the heron lunges and brings its head back up, a writhing silver tail in its beak. “Clever, isn’t it?” 

“Sure,” Cass says. “It truly is the smartest bird in all the land, tricking the gullible guppies and getting a nice meal.”

“Quite bold to hate a skilled fisher when fish features so prominently in your cuisine.” 

The pure, Ibex-like smugness of that statement makes Cass change the direction of the conversation. “That reminds me, Ibex, if you have the chance you definitely should try the fugu while you’re here, it’s simply to die for.”

“The heron is undoubtedly a predator but you must admire it’s ingenuity,” Ibex continues, ignoring Cass. “It uses its preys very instincts to its advantage. In the guppy’s world it must tower like a giant. A god that controls the changing of day into night.”

“You wanted to talk about Divines,” Cass says. “About Apokine.”

“I am talking about Divines.” Ibex smiles, and this time he doesn’t look smug. He looks older, worn down and tired. Cass almost feels sorry for him, except it’s Ibex and Cass will never feel anything resembling sympathy to him. “Something so big they are defined by the curvature of the planet. Possessing great power…knowable, definable within our natural laws, but great nonetheless. Sometimes we can’t be sure if our experiences are real or if they’re just fabrications. It’s so easy to get swallowed up.”

“Apokine’s different,” Cass counters. “It can’t operate without Apostolos.”

“Without fish, without water, herons starve.” Ibex takes one more drink of his tea, emptying the cup. “Don’t get swallowed up, Cassander.”

-

Mako walks into the clinic as if he owns the place. That’s the first step of fogging, moving about the mesh as if you belong there. It may not be true of dogs and cats, but systems security can definitely smell fear, or whatever the digital equivalent of smelling is. Well, Mako has a thick layer of deodorant on—not literally, he’s not that kind of asshole—and he’s going to stroll through the reception area like some old Earth heist hero. 

“Hello, I have an appointment with Dr. Zipaway.”

The person behind the desk peers at him through round glasses. “Alright, what time is the appointment.”

“I don’t think you’ve heard me. I said Dr. Zipaway.” Mako flicks his finger, and the receptionist flickers before disappearing with a pop. “Zip! Away foul beast.”

The shadows of other patients barely stir as Mako walks through the doors and summons a white coat to wear. “Hi,” he waves down a nurse, “I’m Dr. Sesame, I’m here to see my patient.”

The nurse, much less defined than the receptionist—just a pair of scrubs and light condensed in the shape of a person—passes him a clipboard with a list of passkeys written on them. Mako flips through them and frowns. 

“Sorry, but where’s 19348 semicolon drop-down open bar open bar carat-star?” 

The nurse flickers for a moment. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. 19348 semicolon—“

With the same pop that the receptionist gave, the nurse disappears—not just the nurse, but also the clinic itself disappearing into just pure code. Mako loves this part, when the artifice of the mesh melts away and all that’s left over is pure information. It’s not a place he can stay in for long, but there’s a feeling of peace while he’s still in The Zone, free floating as if he’s just another packet of data. 

Mako pauses as he sifts through the data when he comes across the name Maryland September. Of course she’s going to be in the files, he’s stealing information on cloning technology after all, but her name drags out all sorts of unpleasant feelings that can only be expressed with fart noises. Man, he misses AuDy. 

A cough takes him out of his ruminations. Nearby, Ibex floats, a white coat over red scrubs. “Aw, fuck off,” Mako whines and flips the bird at the projection. Mind-Ibex is definitely saying something, but Mako has figured out how to mute him a while back, so all he gets to be is a visual annoyance as Mako doubles his efforts to gather the pertinent information and then detach from the mainframe. 

The Rapid Evening extracts him quickly, and soon he’s back in headquarters with Makos 3 (Hot), 4 (Maknae), 13 (Bad Boy) and Larry. Hot Mako, tells him that Laser Ted dropped by earlier but won’t be around for the next couple of weeks as he’s working on a “visionary venture that’s going to make booku bucks, trust me this time.” Mako (Prime) nods and flings himself face first into the nearest pillow. His hopes of falling immediately to sleep are interrupted by the sound of four other butts hitting the cushions. He turns his head and looks into the concerned eyes of Maknae Mako, which are always slightly moist.

“What?” he says, a little more harshly than he likes. He just got back from a long mission, guys, please let him rest and maybe mope for a while.

“You look sad,” Larry says, and the other Makos nod in agreement. 

“Thanks Captain Obvious, it’s been a long day.”

“I mean for a while,” Larry continues. “You’ve been doing way too many missions.”

“Yeah, you could have left this one to one of us,” Hot Mako chimes. “That biotech company isn’t necessarily the hardest nut to crack.”

“Guys,” Mako whines, “just give me a break already.”

“You need a longer break,” Maknae Mako says. The original Mako huffs and sits up. Hot Mako and Larry adjust so they’re less squeezed together on the couch. Wait, where’s Bad Boy Mako?

“Heeeey Caaass,” Mako’s voice sounds from across the room. Bad Boy Mako rests against the wall with a phone against his ear. “We hardly hang out anymore. Let’s go somewhere to eat soon. Yeah, maybe Weight? We haven’t been there in ages and I bet you have some sweet Apokine assets you can spend. Come on, dip into that royal treasury for some old friends.”

“Traitor!” Mako shouts, and tries in vain to intercept the phone as it goes flying into Larry’s hands.

“Hi Aria, why don’t you ditch the jerk and come to Weight with me and Cass. Wait, no I don’t mean Jacqui, I mean Ibex. Yeah, maybe this weekend? We hardly hang out anymore.”

“You guys suck,” Mako says, but inside he’s glad to see Aria and Cass again. He’d probably have to go under RE’s noses to hang out with them, given that they are both super important political figures now, but he’s picked up a thing or two about subtlety working with them, namely most of the security passcodes.

Weight is beautiful as ever, all rich blues and greens that make Mako want to roll around in the grass and nap in a sunbeam. He can’t however, not just because of his meticulously gelled hair but also because of the facemask and sunglasses that he has on as a part of his elaborate disguise. He expects Cass and Aria to do the same, after all the three of them together would make one hell of a tabloid headline, but they’re just sitting together at the restaurant, dressed down but faces clearly recognizable.

Aria stands up to hug him as Cass says, “What the hell are you wearing, Mako?”

“It’s my celebrity disguise,” Mako responds. “Don’t want the paparazzi getting wind of this meeting. Which begs the question, what are you wearing?”

It’s a redundant question as Cass is wearing the old military jacket that was practically a required part of his outfit back when he was in the Chime. Ouch. Back when is a thing now, huh?

They sit down at a table for four and order their meals. Cass lights up with delight when they see squid ink pasta on the menu, and Aria listens to the waiter list off every single daily special before ordering. Mako’s just happy to stuff his mouth, and for a minute it’s just the three of them laughing and eating like they used to do. Then someone asks for their empty chair and the three of them pause. Cass is the first person to regain their composure.

“Sure,” they say, but there’s hesitation in their voice. So they all miss AuDy, and now the mood’s turned from nostalgic to bummer. Great. 

“How was the meeting with Ibex?” Aria says after a few seconds of unbearable, awkward sad silence.

“YOU MET WITH IBEX?! Why?” Mako almost jumps from his seat, and reminds himself that this is supposed to be incognito. No weird outbursts please, Mako, keep calm, your friend only “met” with the biggest assfart in the Golden Branch, don’t sweat it. 

“He wanted to talk to Cass,” Aria says, handing Mako a glass of water. “Drink this and don’t make a scene, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“I thought you hated Ibex,” Mako says before taking a big gulp, and crunching on a piece of ice for good measure. There. Cool as a cucumber.

“I mean I do. I still do, sorry Aria,” Cass says. “We mostly talked about birds, but I think he still got in my head.”

“He’s in my head, too,” Mako shrugs, and then steals a forkful of pasta from Cass’ plate and dips it into Aria’s sauce. “I just do the exact opposite of what he says and make sure he’s always disappointed.”

Cass and Aria look at each other, and then each steal a fry from Mako’s plate. Rude. “Thanks Mako,” Cass says. They chew their fry thoughtfully, before returning to twirl their pasta neatly around their fork. “Hey, did you know that black herons hunt by using their wings to make shade, which tricks the fish into thinking it’s night and falling asleep?”

“What’s a heron?”

-

Aria meets with Ibex after the meal, says nothing about Cass and Mako, and returns to her place at the end of the day where Jacqui waits with a kiss and an enthusiastically charred crème brulée. They make tea and Jacqui talks about her day while Aria listens, sometimes strumming a guitar or writing down stray lyrics in a notebook. Jacqui doesn’t ask about Aria’s day, and for that Aria’s grateful. Former mercenaries know about confidentiality.

Aria does tell Jacqui as much as she can, in her own time. Nothing specific, barely any names and definitely no locations, but Jacqui knows how to listen to Aria even with the spontaneous self-censorship. 

“I saw Cass and Mako today.” 

“Really? How was it?”

Aria shrugs. “Mako’s still as ridiculously Mako as ever. Cass is doing good. I haven’t seen them outside their mech in a while, I think they may have put on some weight.”

“Well,” Jacqui says as she removes one arm for maintenance, “at least Apostolosian clothing’s good at concealing curves.”

“It’s probably stress,” Aria says. “And Jacqui, watch it on the bodyshaming.”

Jacqui holds up the hand still attached to her body. “Sorry Aria. Though to be fair it was more of a fashionshaming. It’s weird thinking of them in those robes all the time.”

“He wore his jacket.”

“I like that jacket,” Jacqui says, then takes a breath and asks the question she actually wants to ask. “Didn’t Cass meet with Ibex earlier?”

“Yup,” Aria says, and prepares herself for the question Jacqui always asks when he’s brought up.

“Why do you work with him, Aria? You know he’s a bastard, and he’s probably using your fame for whatever convoluted plan he has. You’re not an idiot, Aria; you’re actually really smart. You don’t have to be a tool.”

“I’m not a tool,” Aria retorts, and then takes a breath. They’ve had this conversation (maybe it crosses the border into argument) before, and she doesn’t want to repeat it again. “There’s so much bullshit in this sector that we can fix, and he gives me a way to do it. No, I don’t agree with everything he’s done or does, but the Righteous Vanguard is a platform, and it’s the best way for me to make a change. Maybe I’m ambitious,” she sits down next to Jacqui and helps her reattach her hand, “but I know the Golden Branch can be better, and I can help make it better. It’s not about Ibex it’s about the people.”

“I mean, don’t you want to work with people you like?”

“I do like him…in a way,” Aria says quickly after Jacqui’s startled glance. “He’s kind of like me—“

“Nothing like you.”

“—if I didn’t have any moral reservations. He’s sacrificed a lot for his vision. His whole life, his brother…there’s very little of him actually left, Jacqui, and what’s left is just a tired old man. I think he knows he won’t see the fruits of the labor and that’s why he’s left the Vanguard to me. And I find that…sad.”

“If the tables were turned I’d doubt he’d feel the same for you,” Jacqui says, and begins to sort through their personal mail, and hands her an Earth Home postcard. “From Orth,” she says. “He hopes you’re doing well.”

“How old fashioned of him,” Aria smiles and takes it, pretending not to see the letter with an address from the Odamas fleet in the pile of letters. 

-

Orth is on his twelfth cup of coffee and sixth episode of Fullmetal Alchemist when the timer rings. He sighs, closes his stream and gets back to his desk. After a few callisthenic exercises he’s back where he was four hours ago, meticulously going through the paperwork necessary to keep Counterweight afloat.

He sees their names—Aria Joie, Cassander Timaeus Berenice, the shadows left by Mako Trig—and each time his chest tightens with bittersweet fondness. There are so many things he would like them to do, so many loose ends to investigate and rights to wrong, but they’ve all moved on to bigger and better things, to planets more beautiful than Counterweight. 

He’s grown too, but right now it feels like he is standing still. There is something big looming in the distance, in a star sector filled with divine robots, royal houses and revolutionary popstars. All that’s left to him is the reams and rivers of paperwork left in their wake, and by hell he’s going to finish it, down to the letter, because someone’s got to keep the power running during the war.

In a different bubble in Counterweight, Ibex brews a pot of tea and settles down for another episode of Planet Earth X, the penultimate series made while humans still lived on Earth. 

There was such scale to the series, but now it feels almost quaint, looking at the biology of their single solitary planet when humans populate almost half a galaxy now. To the human, ants are just small insects with a propensity of carrying leaves. They don’t see the wars, the conquests over spiders and grasshoppers, the great migrations over rivers and roads. And they don’t see us, Ibex muses, they are probably carrying on with what they’ve always done on their singular lonely planet. 

Ibex leans back and listens to the narrator talk about the Serengeti, his ears perking up when he hears his namesake spoken. He learns back and sees the guppies schooling, and the heron with its wings bent to create false shade. He also sees the cameraperson hidden in the nearby grass, the editors going over the footage, the writers writing the script that the actor will read in the recording booth. 

All that artifice, to survive millennia so Ibex can have something to say to Cassander about Divines and power. An anonymous bird snapping its neck to catch a silver fish in its beak.


End file.
